Broken
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: There was a place inside Sam where cold flames lived and burned. Angst, character death. Disregards everything after Shadow. Full summary inside. Complete.
1. Between the searching and the need to wo

Title: Broken

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: There was a place inside Sam where cold flames lived and burned.

Angst, character death. Disregards everything after Shadow. Full summary inside.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural.

Rating:  T

A/N: Okay, the plot up until the episode Shadow happened, but after that I'm making everything up. This a future fic and takes place after the final, ceiling demon, battle - well, my version of it. Details will be explained as the story continues. Please R&R.

Chapter One: Between the searching and the need to work it out  


"Okay, so this demon…"

"Spirit." The elder Winchester corrected automatically.

"I thought we settled on demon," Sam argued, glancing up from the printed out sheets of paper in his hand.

Dean shook his head; looking laid back on the motel bed across from Sam's. "Spirit makes more sense. It wants revenge for its death."

"No," Sam said slowly, "It wants to kill anyone who walks through the park at midnight." He looked at his brother meaningfully. "Midnight. The time where the veil between different worlds is the weakest. Where a demon could easily pop up from hell."

"No," Dean argued. "That's reaching. That girl who was murdered in the park, _at midnight, _her spirit is probably haunting it."

"But the murders don't fit a pattern like most hauntings do." Sam set the papers down and focused solely on his brother, who had sat up on the edge of the mattress. "If it was the spirit of the girl who was killed there, wouldn't it make more sense for all the victims to fit a similar profile? Acted, or looked, like the man who killed her?"

"Or her spirit could be angry." Dean's voice was level. "It could be lashing out towards anyone that's near the place she was murdered, at the time she was murdered."

"Or it's a demon."

"Demon's don't stick to one place like that. Not when they have the power to spread themselves out."

"And what if it doesn't?" Sam asked. "Have that power?"

"Then it would at least have the strength to kill at all times of the day."

"Not necessarily." Surly Dean could accept that Sam had read more on the subject than he had. "If someone was summoning it…"

"Too bad we already killed your demon girlfriend." Dean smirked. "She'd be a prime suspect."

"Yeah," Sam rolled his eyes. "Too bad."

There was a moment of silence, during which, each brother tried his best to think of a persuasive argument in their respective favor.

"How 'bout this…" Sam started, realizing first that they were at a stalemate. "If it is just a haunting, all I'll have to do is burn the bones. But if it's a demon, it'll be exorcism time, right?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, looking skeptical, "So?"

"And all the attacks have happened at midnight, right?" He went on.

"Around then." Dean nodded again. "Midnight, one. I think the latest time of death was recorded at two twenty six, or something like that."

Sam nodded, the simple solution now very apparent. "Then how about I just go down to the graveyard at three or four in the morning?" He asked, glancing at the neon motel clock. That wasn't too far off. "I'll dig up the bones, burn 'em, then go back at midnight tomorrow. If something happens, I'm right. Nothing happens, you're right. Sound good?"

"Ah, one problem, Francis." His brother sounded annoyed. "What if you are right? What if it's a demon?"

"Then I'll exorcize it." Sam said simply. "I've done it before."

"Yeah," Dean said sarcastically. "When I was there to back you up. I won't be this time."

"I know that." Sam snapped, the conversation was starting to border on that thing they never talked about. "I don't need you. Come on, last time you were backed into a corner, terrified. Not exactly useful, if I do say so myself."

"Not my fault it was on a freaking airplane." Dean snapped, then paused. "I think if it is a demon, you should call dad."

"No way." Sam said immediately. "I don't need his help."

"Like hell you don't." He was talking about more than the hunt. More than this demon vs. spirit thing. "You do, you _know _you do." Dean said evenly.

Sam shook his head forcefully. "He's probably on his own hunt right now, anyway. I don't need him, and he really doesn't need me getting in his way."

"He's your father." Dean's tone was that same defensive one that he always got when discussing John Winchester. "He'll help you. You guys need each other."

"No," Sam said evenly. "What we need is to keep hunting. Until we find the thing…we just need to keep hunting."

"I get that Sammy, I really do, but…"

"Good." Sam cut him off. "Then you agree with my plan?"

Dean sighed. "Do I really have a choice in the matter?"

Sam looked at him, sadness radiating off him in waves. "I guess not."

The elder sighed again. "Then go for it." He paused. "It is a good plan"

Sam nodded. "You did the same thing a few years ago." Dean looked at his little brother, confusion portrayed clearly on his features. "That poltergeist in Connecticut." He reminded.

"Oh yeah," Dean smiled. "Of course, that wasn't so much strategy as…you know, a guess."

"Well, we knew either water or fire would kill it." Sam smiled himself. God his brother could be a moron.

"That's the tricky thing with elemental poltergeists." Dean smiled. "And that house was by a lake, and had about sixteen fire places."

"Gotta love rich people." He smirked, remembering the mansion that the Winchester's had been guests in for nearly two weeks following that kill. "But seriously, did you really have to jump into the lake?"

"Well it was after me, wasn't it?"

"And if water hadn't been its weakness, it probably would have killed you." Sam argued, memories of the emotions he'd felt during that particular hunt resurfacing.

Dean just shrugged a shoulder. "You win some, you lose some. Death is highly underrated."

Sam snorted. "Come on man, I was seventeen years old, if you'd of died then, I'd have been alone with dad."

"That would of been interesting." Dean paused and considered it, smiling widening after a few moments. "Really interesting. Dad's not too much of a talker when you're alone with him. I think you would have driven each other nuts."

"Did you guys?" Sam's voice was suddenly serious. "Drive each other nuts while I was away at Stanford?"

It was something they had never discussed. Something Sam had always been afraid to bring up. But his fear was gone now.

Dean ducked his head. "Does that really matter?" He asked evenly, almost pleadingly.

"I wanna know."

He sighed. "It wasn't that bad." And Sam believed him, because Dean was incredibly honest now. "The first couple weeks were rough. Awkward, mostly. Then we split up and took on our own gigs. It was better when we weren't crowding each other."

"You guys didn't work together at all?"

"No," Dean assured. "We did. We were just better apart. Still am I guess."

"It was always supposed to be me and you, wasn't it?" The tone in Sam's voice was hard to identify. Regretful acceptance, maybe. "Me and you against everything."

Dean shrugged. "I work well alone."

"You hate being alone." He countered. He knew his brother.

"I love being alone."

Sadly, both were true.

"You like being with me more." Not arrogance, just a fact.

"Yeah well, you're my brother." He stated simply. "I need you around sometimes."

"I need you around all the time." Admitting this stuff wasn't awkwardly emotional anymore. Sam relished the freedom to say whatever he wanted to his big brother. "I'd be dead by now if it wasn't for you."

Dean chuckled hollowly, before countering with, "You spent four years alone at college. Didn't need me so much then."

"I was stupid." Sam felt ashamed of his actions years before. "I should have stuck around. I owed you that."

"You don't owe me anything."

Sam snorted. "Just my life a few times over."

"Yeah, well…" Dean trailed off, because he could not argue that. Silence spread between the two. It was one of those odd silences that had no real definition. It wasn't awkward or forced or comfortable. It was just a lack of anything else to say.

It didn't last too long. "Hey Sammy?"

"Yeah?" He didn't correct the use of the nickname anymore. "You ever think about going back to school?"

"Yeah." Sam admitted easily. "But I'm not going to."

"Why?" Dean sounded sad.

"You know why." He said simply. "I don't think I could go back. That's not my life anymore."

"It could be."

"No." He stated softly, yet firmly. "It couldn't." There was a long pause. "I'm not sure it ever was."

"Please," Dean snorted. "You're the blonde chick in the Munsters, remember? You're the normalist one in our little demented family circle."

"Normalsit isn't a word." The younger brother informed in lieu of an actual response.

"Sorry," Dean said sarcastically. "I left my word of the day calendar at the other motel."

Sam smiled. "I'll pick you up a thesaurus at the next book store we pass."

"Yeah, maybe I'll learn a new word for avoidance." He said, "Because I think all I can say right now, is that you're _avoiding _this subject."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "I'm being very evasive."

"Cute." Dean shot. "Doesn't change anything."

"Yeah it does." Sam argued. "It proves my vocabulary's bigger than yours."

"That's not usually what chicks are looking for in the 'bigger' category."

Sam ducked his head to hide his growing smirk. "Does everything have to be sexual with you?" He tried his best to sound perturbed.

"Yup." Dean grunted simply. "Unless of course you wanna talk about you going back to school. I think I can keep that topic sexual innuendo free."

"A conversation involving only thoughts from your upstairs brain?" Sam faked a shocked expression. "Didn't know you could do that."

"Please!" Dean exclaimed. "I do that all the time."

Sam shot him a ludicrous look.

Dean bit his lip. "Well, I do that sometimes."

The doubtful expression remained.

"Okay, I'm willing to try to do that," He paused. "If you talk to me about Stanford."

Sam sighed, seriousness returning to his voice. "I don't want to go back."

"A few moths ago you were singing a different tune."

"A few moths ago, a lot was different." Which was a stupid statement, as they both knew that much.

"No shit Sherlock." Dean also saw the obviousness of the excuse. "I still think it'd be better if you went back to that apple pie life you fought so hard to get. Maybe if you do, I'll stop…"

"I want to keep hunting." Sam cut him off. "I…" he met his brother's eyes and was surprised to see the depth of sadness there. "I need to keep hunting. Until I find that demon, at least."

"It wasn't a demon." Dean said evenly.

"Then what was it?" Sam's interest was highly peaked. This was the first time he allowed the subject to come up.

"I don't know." He said honestly. "But it wasn't a demon." He paused and studied his little brother. "Is that why you've been working so hard on this case? You think this is the demon that, ya know." He shrugged.

Yeah, Sam knew.

"I…No," he shook his head quickly. "I've been working so hard on this case because eight people have died in the last month."

"You should really call dad."

Sam stood abruptly. "No. I should head out to the graveyard and see where that girl's buried. Hopefully the ground'll still be soft. I hate digging up graves."

He headed for the front door of the motel room, not bothering to grab his coat on the way out. It was a nice night, and by the time it got colder, he'd be drenched in sweat.

"Sammy?" Dean called; the younger didn't turn, but halted his movements. Hand poised on the doorknob, waiting. "Be careful, alright?"

"Yeah," Sam turned and smiled widely. "Always."

Dean rolled his eyes, but sounded no protest. Sam was outside at the Impala moment's later, engine roaring to life as it always did. The cool, vinyl seats made him feel safe. At home. He didn't dwell on that feeling too long.

After all, he had work to do.

TBC...

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	2. I’m walking uphill being turned around a

Chapter Two: I'm walking uphill being turned around and round

The ground was cold, but he couldn't pick himself up.

The grave of the young, female victim needed to be dug. Her still flesh-covered body – not yet even close to being a skeleton – needed to be burned.

The more flesh a dead body had, the more it smelled when it burned. Sam had learned this at age thirteen. Dean had learned it at age four. Nothing sticks out in one's memory like the smell of your mother's burning flesh.

Sometimes Sam imagined that he could remember as well. The smell, the sounds, the fear, the death. The ending. The beginning.

But he'd been a baby. He couldn't remember, no matter how hard he tried, or pretended to. No matter how many times he heard the story, or thought about that night. He'd been only an infant.

But he'd been twenty-two the last time. The second time

He remembered the smell of Jessica's death. The flames. The sound of the fire sizzling her skin.

It's easy to remember the look of horror on her face, and the feelings invoked from it. They were what he expected to remember. What he could never forget.

The smells and the sounds. Those were things that could not be described. The elements he wished he could erase.

Sam knew fire. Knew it inside and out, backwards and forwards.

Fire killed. Fire kept you safe. Fire was everything and fire was nothing. Fire had saved his life so many times – how many spirits had they driven away by burning a corpse? – Fire had taken everything away from him.

He sat on the cold hard ground. Fire would make him warm right now.

Only it probably wouldn't. This kind of cold didn't stem from the biting chill of icy winds. This kind of cold was buried deep inside him.

In a place only his big brother could reach. In a place only two people had ever touched before.

A place that was now wrapped and packaged and ready for sell. He didn't use it anymore. It was just a useless reminder of what once was.

False hope. Cold flames. There was a place inside him where cold flames lived and burned.

"You'll get sick sitting out here all night." Dean's voice came from nowhere, but it did not shock Sam. He knew his brother would come. He always did.

"Does it matter?" Was the younger brother's depressive response.

Did anything matter?

"I thought you were gonna dig up that girl's grave." Dean said instead. Moving forward to take a seat next to Sam.

The tombstone he was leaning against was big enough for both of them. The brothers sat next to each other, sides touching.

It drove a few of the flames away.

"I was." Sam said. "I will."

"The sun's gonna come up soon." They looked simultaneously to the beginnings of pink tingeing the sky. "You can't risk anyone seeing you."

Sam shrugged. Dean was right. Dean was always right.

"I'll do it tomorrow."

"Someone could die tonight." No anger, no disappointment. Just a fact. A reminder

"I'll stick around."

"Patrol?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause. "Why'd you stop here?" Dean jerked his thumb in the direction of the stone they were leaning against. "I think this dude kicked it before dad was born."

Sam smiled lightly. A few more of those cold flamed ebbed away. "I'm not sure." He answered honestly. "Wanted to, I guess."

"Good enough reason for doing anything." Dean shrugged and settled back against the granted again.

"How come we never visit mom's grave?" Sam asked, seemingly at random.

Dean took the question in stride. He really couldn't be startled anymore. "It hurts too much."

"You, or dad?" Sam inquired, turning his head slightly towards his brother. "'Cause we never went when we were kids either."

"We were never in Kansas." Dean reminded. "Not after she died."

"That's a piss poor excuse." Sam informed him. "We should have gone together. At least once."

"Did you?" Dean turned towards his brother as well. "Ever go by yourself?"

"Twice."

Dean nodded.

"You?" Sam countered.

"Three times."

"When?"

"Right after you left for Stanford." That was the easiest to admit. "Right after me and Cassie broke up, and the last night we were in Lawrence. When we saw her spirit."

Sam nodded. That sounded about right.

"What about you?" Dean needed to know.

"I went while we were back in Lawrence too," he admitted. "Second night, while you were asleep."

"When else?"

"Middle of my freshman year at college."

"Why?"

"Because I'd never been before." Sam met his gaze, looking suddenly serious. "Eighteen years of fighting for vengeance for her death, and I'd never even seen her grave. Seemed wrong."

"Dad went every year." Dean told him.

"I had a feeling," Sam admitted. "He always disappeared."

"He said he was on a hunt."

"He was always a sucky liar." Sam smiled. "I never wanted to go with him."

"Me either." Dean agreed. Neither wanted to get into why that was.

The sun was rising faster. The darkness that had hidden them in shadows just minutes before was lifting fast, threatening to expose them. Take away their secret. Their safety.

"You're gonna have to get up soon." Dean started again.

"I don't want to." He sounded very factual. Silently asking his brother to give him a good reason to do such a thing.

"Your butt's gonna go numb."

Sam actually snorted. "That's the best you got?"

"Hey, not being able to feel your own ass is an irritating bitch." Dean smiled. "Besides, you should get some sleep, if you're gonna be staying up all night looking for this thing."

"I don't really wanna sleep." His tone remained just as factual.

The bight orange of the sun was dusting the horizon.

"Then go to a bar somewhere and get laid." Was his immediate counter-offer. "God knows you need it."

Sam smiled again. "There you go with that downstairs brain train of thought."

"Hey, that rhymed," Dean teased. "Sammy's a poet and he didn't know it."

"Shut up," Sam smiled. The cold flames were almost gone.

"Seriously man," Dean continued. "You need a beer, or a shot, or something."

"Would you be drunk right now?" Sam inquired. "If our roles were reversed?"

"What's the point of questions like those?"

So that was Dean's real reaction to his destiny-centered inquiries? Sam thought maybe he preferred the sarcasm.

"I mean," he waved his hand slightly. "It's not different. The roles aren't reversed. What's the point in wasting brain cells over it?"

"It stops me from thinking about what's really going on?" Sam sounded like he was guessing. "It's a distraction."

"It keeps you from ever dealing with stuff."

"Maybe that's a good thing." He said. It sure felt good enough when he was ignoring it.

"It's not." Dean said simply. "Not after a certain point in time."

Sam bit his trembling bottom lip. It was getting too real again. Too close.

The cold flames turned to a fierce heat that ate away at his insides. Made him want to cry out in pain and despair.

"I don't want to think about this anymore." Sam said sternly, trying his hardest to keep the tears out of his voice. "Maybe I will find a good bar tonight."

"You should find a good shrink." Dean countered. "Or call dad."

"I hate psychiatrists." Sam said, sounding distasteful. "The last one I was near made me shoot you, remember?"

"Of course I remember." Dean said. "I was thinking along the lines of finding one that was _alive _this time. You know, just for fun."

Humor was engrained into his brother's personality. Nothing could erase it.

"I don't want to talk to a doctor." Sam said evenly. "And I don't want to talk to dad. I just want to find the monster that…"

"I know." Dean cut off. "But what's gonna happen once you do?"

Sam was silent. Leftover pain turned to ice again.

"Keep hunting." He decided after a moment. "I'll keep hunting."

"That'll kill you eventually." Dean said. "You should try living your life again."

"Hunting _is_ my life."

"No it's not."

"I think we've had this conversation before." He said in desperate need for a distraction.

"It goes around in circles." Dean agreed.

"Dad's still hunting." Sam said suddenly, remembering that he could use that as an argument

"And it keeps on goin'" Dean smiled softly. "Dad doesn't know how else to live."

"Yeah, but the thing that killed mom is gone." Sam argued. "Shouldn't he try and go back to living a regular life?" Why did his brother insist on setting a double standard?

"I think he expected to die in that battle."

"I think we all expected someone to die." Sam countered.

"It's amazing that no one did."

"Yeah," the elder sighed. "We kicked ass."

"Too bad it was all for nothing."

"Don't say that Sammy." Dean requested gently. "I think that's what we were meant to do. Kill that thing before it killed anyone else. Protect people from it."

"I think you were addicted to playing hero." Sam countered, not wanting to address the fire-demon battle memories.

"Maybe so." Dean shrugged. "It was a good way to live."

"Too bad it got you killed."

And then there was silence.

Dean sighed softly after what seemed like a lifelong pause. It was the first time Sam had said the words aloud. "We all knew it was going to happen."

"I wanted to go first." Sam said in a small, scared voice. "I wanted to…not see you die. Ever."

Dean scoffed. "We both know I woulda never let that happen. I spent my whole life protecting you."

"You didn't protect me from the pain of watching you die." Sam turned to Dean, looking suddenly stricken. "Did you ever even think about that?"

"I did." Dean admitted with a frown. "I was selfish."

"Damn straight."

"Does that mean you still have issues with me?" He asked shortly.

"Of course I still have issues!" Sam exclaimed, then calmer, "Why?"

"The sun's almost all the way up."

"You have to go." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah." He nodded.

Sam wouldn't ask. He didn't want to understand.

Dean stood, shaking the stiffness out of his limbs, brushing the dust off his clothes. He looked down at his little brother, but Sam would not meet his eyes.

"Dude…" Dean trailed off. "Seriously. Go to a bar or something. You're starting to look pathetic."

Sam's chuckle was watery. "Thanks for that, man."

A brief pause. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"I guess." Sam shrugged. "I don't really have a choice in the matter."

He would never understand that his was the only choice that actually mattered.

"You know, I hate saying goodbye."

It didn't matter which brother said it.

It was an absolute truth for both.

TBC...

* * *

Reviews are appreciated 


	3. Secret in motion when my feet are on the

Chapter Three: Secret in motion when my feet are on the ground  


"You're getting the sheets all bloody."

Sam hid a wince. "They're not mine."

"There's nothing worse than a suspicious maid." Dean countered. He looked like he wanted to say something else. Or more likely, he wanted to help tend to Sam's wounds himself.

Both knew he couldn't.

"I'll tell 'em I had a baby." Sam said distractedly and only turned away from his arm when Dean started laughing.

Not snorting or chuckling, genuinely laughing. Bordering on hysterically.

It took the younger brother a moment, but then he smiled as well.

"I really just said that didn't I?" A flash of dimple and the mood was lighter than it had been…in a long while.

"Talk about your odd statements." Dean choked out. "Would you start running your own daddy-daycare?"

"Only if I could get Eddie Murphy to help me out."

"Now Sam," Dean took a deep breath to calm himself. "In your little excuse, where would you say the baby came out?"

"Shut up, dude." Sam warned, his mind effectively away from the pain in his arm.

"Seriously," Dean continued. "I mean, I can think of a few things, but…"

"Hey." Sam turned to him, suddenly serious. "If Arnold Schwarzenegger can give birth, I think any man can."

Dean stopped abruptly. "Huh?"

Sam looked up again, and was in hysterics a moment later. "Man," he gasped through the laughter. "It was a movie."

Dean's face turned an embarrassing pink color. "Right." He cleared his throat slightly. "Must a never caught that one."

"God," Sam sighed. "The look on your face…"

"What'd you expect?" Dean snapped. "I thought the freaking Governor of California was having a baby."

"Is there something wrong with government officials reproducing?" Sam asked, in that little brother, mock challenge voice.

Dean met his eye. "When the kid's start comin' out of the guys?" He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah."

"Alright, I'll agree with you there." And when Sam stretched the final bandage across his oozing wounds, he was surprised to find that he was finished.

Dean sighed. "I told you, you should have called dad."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Can we go back to talking about male pregnancies?"

"No." Dean decided easily.

"Female ones?" Sam tried.

"I don't think so." He looked somewhat sickened at the thought.

"Sex?" He pleaded. "You like sex."

"I don't really wanna discuss it in detail with my little brother." Dean cringed. "Again."

It took Sam a moment, but he smiled at the memory his brother had just brought forth.

"I was ten." He protested. "You had to give me the sex talk."

"You know, we did have a dad around." The elder countered, although with no real seriousness. "You ever think that maybe that was his job?"

"What kind of sex talk did dad give you?"

Dean's gaze drifted into space.

"Exactly."

"You know, I was only thirteen." He argued. "I didn't know everything there was to know, quite yet."

"You knew more than me." Sam said. "Besides, it wasn't my fault that that kid brought in a dirty magazine."

"Dirty magazine?" Dean asked. "What, are you still ten? Just say Playboy."

"I think it was a Penthouse." Sam looked thoughtful.

"And that matters because...?"

Sam shrugged. "That really was an awkward conversation, wasn't it?"

"I don't think explaining the functions of the male anatomy could be anything _but_ awkward." Dean decided.

"At least it's the kinda talk we only have to have once." The younger brother looked grateful. "No repeating circles."

"Unless you count me buying you condoms."

"Hey," Sam protested. "I didn't ask you to do that."

"I found you making out with that girl in your room."

"Her name was Carla." Sam said in lieu of an actual defensive.

"And you were about three articles of clothing away from doing it."

Sam snorted sarcastically. "And having you walk in wasn't a mood killer at all."

"And after she bolted…"

"Thanks for that, by the way."

Dean didn't even pause. "I asked you if you had protection…"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"And you shrugged."

"I was sixteen." He said in way of explanation.

"And you think that stops her from getting pregnant?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "What did you expect me to do?"

"Back off so I could take a cold shower in peace?" He suggested

This time, Dean didn't hold back a smirk.

"You spent the next two years reminding me to always wear a rubber." Sam recalled.

"Good sex is safe sex."

"She said she was on the pill." Sam explained, exasperated.

"Ah, okay, here's a rule of life," Dean's eyes met his firmly. "Chicks lie."

The younger brother rolled his eyes. "Not all of them."

"You're living in denial."

Sam snorted. "And the award for most ironic statement ever…"

Dean paused again, smile falling from his face. "I thought you didn't want to talk about that."

"I don't." Sam said quickly. "Never mind."

"You brought it up; I think we should at least have a chat about it." Dean pressed.

"Nah," Sam shrugged. "Forget it, I didn't mean to say it."

"What's that thing?" Dean inquired. "About intentional slips? Where you mean to say something 'cause you're thinking about it?"

"Freudian slip." Sam supplied, his mind going back to the brief psychology class he'd taken in college. "I think you'd like Freud, he based everything on sex."

"Not the point." Dean wouldn't be distracted.

"Seriously, he could tie sexual libido into everything." Sam smirked. "I don't think he even _had _an upstairs brain."

"Sammy," Dean said, in a warning tone. "You're doing that avoidance thing again."

"So?" He asked, sounding remarkably like a four-year-old.

"So," Dean pressed. "It's not healthy."

"I'm not calling dad." He was fed up with that suggestion.

"I…"

"And I'm not talking to a shrink."

"Okay." Dean agreed easily. "Then talk to someone else."

"I'm talking to you." He said as if that should be enough.

"I'm dead, dude." Dean tossed casually. "I don't think I can cure your mental health problems."

"I don't have mental heath problems."

When Dean said nothing, Sam had a feeling that it was because he knew no real way to respond to that.

"Why don't you call Missouri?" He asked suddenly. "She could help."

"I really don't feel like going back to Kansas." Sam said, gaze moving to the left, away from Dean.

"Then call her and ask her to meet you somewhere." He said easily. "You know she would."

"We've met her once." Sam argued. "You don't know if she even…"

"Bull." Dean sounded angry. "You know she cares about our family."

"You know, it's her fault dad started hunting." He said it as if he was just realizing it for the first time. "If he'd never gone to her, we might have had a normal childhood."

"Normal's boring." Dean waved a dismissive hand. "I liked growing up being able to kill monsters."

"Hero complex." Sam smiled.

"Yeah, well…" Dean shrugged, smiling slightly. "That was your fault."

"My fault?" Sam asked, taken aback. "How is _your _here complex _my _fault?"

"It wasn't," Dean shook his head, smile falling, trying to cover what he'd just said. "Never mind."

"No, you said it was my fault…" Sam trailed of and stared into space for a moment. "Because you were always looking after me, right?" Sam shook his head. "You were always saving my life…"

"Calm down, Sammy," Dean must have been able to tell that he was bordering on the edge of a panic attack. At least, that's what the tightening lungs and the closing throat felt like to Sam. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah, you did." He pressed. "If I hadn't been around, you'd still be…"

"Dead." He filled in immediately. "I'd still be dead. I'd probably woulda been dead a long time ago."

"That's crap and you know it."

"No." Dean insisted, moving until he was sitting right next to Sam on the bed. The mattress bent with his weight and Sam fought so hard not to think about why that was. How did not real people, figments of his imagination, make furniture bend? "Sammy, do you realize that our whole family would have fallen apart a long time ago, if it wasn't for you?"

"Yeah ri…"

"Listen to me." He snapped. "You held us together Sam, don't you realize that?"

"Dad…"

"Dad knew it too," He obviously didn't want to hear what Sam had to say on the subject. Which was good, as he had no idea where that sentence had been going anyway. "That's why he didn't want you to leave for college. He needed you. Just like I did."

"But not anymore, right?"

"Okay, you're forgetting the dead guy factor in there." Dean said gently and smiled, trying desperately to get Sam to do so as well. "If the roles were reversed…"

"I thought you hated…"

Dean cut him off, making his gaze meaningful. "If the roles were reversed, I think you'd still be here too. I wouldn't have let you go."

"Why _are _you still here Dean?" Sam finally mustered the balls to ask the question. "You're dead."

"I'm here because you need me." He said simply, placing his hand on Sam's arm and squeezing it firmly. "I'm here, and I'm real, and I'll keep being here until you let go."

"What if I never do?" Sam said in a small voice, placing his hand over Dean's, needing to feel the solid flesh against his own. "What if I need you forever?"

"Then that's how long I'll stick around," Dean assured, slight smirk playing over his features again. "But I don't think you'll need me for that long. After all, it only took you eight years to learn how to sleep in your own bed."

Sam let out a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

"Twelve before you stopped coming to me every time you had a nightmare." Dean's smile was real, and Sam savored the fact that his brother was still here with him.

"Nine or ten before you stopped beating up bullies for me." Sam added, sniffling slightly.

Dean just snorted. "Before you _asked _me to stop beating up bullies," he scoffed. "You think I actually stopped?"

Sam shot him a surprised, bemused look, to which Dean responded, "You think Tucker Clarence _actually _walked into a door?"

"You did that?" Sam made an amused 'humph' sound when Dean nodded, looking proud. "Thanks."

"Little bastard had it coming." He tossed Sam a lopsided grin. "You're welcome."

"So you're gonna be around as long as I need you?" Sam confirmed, not ready to believe that it was that easy.

"You bet, little brother." Dean smirked, and squeezed Sam's arm again. "Ain't nothing gonna keep me away."

Sam bit his lip. "Promise?" He hated how weak and pathetic his voice sounded, but he needed to hear it, needed to know for sure.

"Yeah, kiddo." Dean whispered. "I promise."

TBC...

* * *

R&R 


	4. I stop believing everything will be alri

Chapter Four: I stop believing everything will be alright  


Sam was driving through New York City, and wasn't feeling at all safe doing so. He could fight demons and ghosts for a living, but when it came to confrontations on the rough city streets, Dean had always been much better adapt for that kind of thing.

Dean was the one who hustled pool and played poker to make the money that the brothers had lived on.

Since...

Sam took a deep breath. He hated thinking this. He really, _really_ hated thinking the words. But he hadn't seen his brother in nearly a week and a half. Maybe it was time.

Ever since Dean had died... He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves.

Ever since Dean had died, Sam had been relying on credit card scams to get by. He'd also taken the rest of his own money out of the bank. Cash was always safer, in his opinion.

As Sam tapped his fingers to the rhythm of Metallica as he sat, patiently waiting at a never ending stop light, his thoughts drifted away and for a few moments he was almost content.

A gunshot rang out, and before Sam had time to blink, or even form a thought, people were dive bombing onto the ground, ducking into establishments, and sirens were filling the air.

Sam's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He couldn't move. He had nowhere to go.

"Drug bust." Came Dean's casual tone from the passenger's seat. And Sam actually jumped, because for once, he hadn't been expecting it.

"What?" He asked, voice slightly shallow.

"It's just some low time drug dealer." Dean gestured across the street, to where the arrest was now being made - threatening weapon in the hands of officials - another shot hadn't been fired, people, already, had diverted their attention. "Or a pimp or a thief. Nothing big."

"I know." Sam snapped. "I'm fine."

"You were scared." Dean said factually. "That's why I'm here."

"I was scared when that ghost had me pinned to a wall two days ago." The younger man snapped, grip loosening on the steering wheel. "Where were you then?"

"You didn't need me then." Dean said simply.

"Like hell I didn't."

"Sam," Dean sighed. "Most of the time I can't even move things. I wouldn't of actually been able to help you with the hunt." He looked ay him firmly. "You didn't need me."

"But I needed you when I heard a gunshot?" Sam asked, sounding doubtful. "I think you just show up whenever you want to."

Dean sighed, patience with Sam obviously wearing. The younger man couldn't blame him. It sounded pathetic even to Sam.

In truth, he'd just missed his big brother.

"You know that's not true." Dean said. "And in reality, the less I show up, the better you're probably getting."

"The better I'm getting?" Sam quoted, sounding angry. "I'm not sick."

"Sam..."

"No," he cut off, "Seriously, where do you go when you're not with me? What's being dead like?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Sam lacked a sufficient answer to that question, so he insisted instead, "I want to know. Where do you go?"

"I can't tell you that." He said calmly.

"Why not?" Sam snapped. "Why the hell not!"

"Because I can't!" Dean shouted. "Because I -"

"Move it, pal!" The angry voice of the man in the car behind him cut Dean off and instinctively made Sam swivel his head around to meet the guy's eyes in the rearview mirror, and stick a certain finger in his direction.

When Sam turned back to the seat beside him, Dean was gone. No farewell, no warning, just gone. Just like when he'd died.

Sam had tears in his eyes when he stepped on the gas pedal. Somehow, it was like he'd lost his big brother all over again.

* * *

An hour or so later found Sam on his fourth beer and counting at some bar. The name of which he could not be bothered to remember, or even glance down at the napkin his Budweiser was stuck to and find out.

He didn't care.

"Wanna another?" The female bartender asked. It was the same woman who'd been waiting on him since he'd entered the establishment.

When he'd first gotten here and sat down, Sam thought that she regarded him with a certain sympathetic gaze. He'd noted that she was cute; curvy, with long black hair and tanned skin. Not normally the kind of girl he'd go for. She looked to be no older than him. Probably working to put herself through college.

Four beers later, and he could care less. She was simply the supplier of the thing that was keeping him comfortably numb.

"Sure." He said. "I wanna another."

And moments later he had it. He felt no victory. Nothing really, except the gaping wound in his heart.

"Hey," she said lightly, leaning up against the counter across from him, and Sam could honestly not identify how much time had passed since he'd gotten his new drink.

He shook the bottle; not very long.

"Huh?' He asked, wondering why she was talking to him. She'd already supplied him with his beer.

"What's wrong?"

"What makes you think anything's wrong?" He stammered slightly, and raised his bottle to gesture with that hand. "Can't a guy just enjoy a refreshing beverage?"

"Sure," She nodded. "But in my experience, people only drink alone for two reasons." He looked up, mildly interested, and she continued. "They're alcoholics." She stated plainly."And I don't think you are..."

"Howdaya know?" He mumbled. "You don't know me."

"I think you fall into the second category." She didn't speak again until Sam met her eyes. "You're drinking to forget something."

"Yahtzee." God he missed his brother.

She studied him for a moment. "So what happened?" She inquired gently. "What are you hiding from?"

The rest of the bar fell away as he met her deep brown eyes. She looked genuinely curious. She wanted to know.

"My brother died."

She looked taken aback. "God, I'm so..."

"He got killed by this thing. I don't even know what it was." He shook his head, laughing slightly. "We killed all these things, monsters, you know? We did it for a goddamn living. We even killed the thing that killed our mom when we were kids. Same thing that killed my girlfriend..." He was deep into the memories now, it didn't mater that he was still talking to another human being.

"I mean, that's what we've been trying to kill our whole lives. That was supposed to be the grand finale. The end, you know? I wasn't even gonna stick around, I mean, I wanted to go back to school, be normal again. But Dean asked me to stick around for a little. Actually asked, and he'd never done that before. So I did.

"After almost getting killed by the thing that broke your family apart...if anything deserved a little one on one brother bonding time, it was the aftermath of that. It wasn't gonna be for long. A couple weeks. Maybe just until a new semester started...then we were hunting this thing... A spirit. It was so easy. It felt so easy. Like a...cool down almost. Our dad had gone...god knows where after the demon was dead, and me and Dean were just hanging out.

Then this thing attacked us. Right in the middle of taking out a ghost, this thing just sweeps through and poof, Dean's dead. I couldn't even blink. Dean was just dead. He's really dead."

Then he stopped, looking up at her again. He saw fear in her eyes. The same fear that had been present in Dean's. The last real - alive - look he had given his little brother. Fear.

Dean wasn't supposed to be afraid of anything.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled to the woman, standing up, and stumbling slightly while doing so. He didn't miss how she took a protective step backwards when he reached his full height, but he didn't care if this girl thought he was insane.

He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and tossed them to the counter clumsily.

He talked to his dead brother, saw Dean walking around like a normal human being. Of course he was insane. This girl had every right to be frightened.

The cold air hit him as soon as he stumbled out the bar's doors, and he shivered. It was one of those deep shivers that reached inside his entire body, took hold of him and refused to let go.

He'd spent his whole life fearing the flames, and now he wished for them back desperately so he could drive this cold away. He hated the cold.

"Sammy..." Dean was at his side. The younger man hadn't realized it before now, but he had stumbled his way into the ally behind the bar.

He was grasping the side of a dumpster with one hand, other sealed tightly over his eyes.

"...god..." he gasped, barely able to speak through the sobs wracking his body. "D-Dean."

"I'm here, buddy," the elder man whispered softly standing close to his little brother, and Sam could not find it in himself to even try and crack a joke. He'd cracked enough jokes over the last few months. He'd been running and hiding from the truth.

"No you're not!" He gasped, refusing to look up. "No you're not, no you're not!"

He continued to cry, great, wracking sobs that had been held in since the day his brother had mysteriously died. Pushed aside each time Dean had appeared at his side, ignored while he focused on other issues.

He'd had things to hunt and a dead brother to talk to. Life could go on, he'd assured himself after Dean's first appearance at his grave site, right after John had taken off again. There would be some things he'd have to get used to, of course. No more hunting for the Winchester spirit.

No more hunting, no more eating, no more talking to his brother in public, no more real physical contact; and that one didn't even apply at all times, so really, this was such a simple thing to deal with. Simple for the Winchester's anyway. The brothers who could overcome anything could certainly overcome death.

But it was a lie.

Sam felt it now. The tightening in his lungs, his complete an utter desperation. "You're not here," he choked out a horse whisper again. "You're not here. You're dead. You died. You died and you left me here all alone. How..." A sob interrupted him.

Angry at his own weakness he ripped his hand away from his eyes and pounded the side of the dumpster with as much force as he could muster. "Damn it!" He ranted. "Damn it! Fucking, damn it!"

He snapped his head up then, looking around, blinking rapidly to clear to tears from his vision.

Dean wasn't there.

His brother had vanished again, and this time, Sam had truly needed him.

"Where the hell are you!" His shouts echoed off the brick walls lining the ally around him. "Huh! What was all that shit about you being around! Where _are _you?" He was screaming so loud and his sobbing was so violent that his voice was nothing but cracked sounds now.

"Where are you?" He tried again, not understanding how his brother could be there one moment and be gone the next. "Dean? I need you..."

He waited then. Waited for his brother to appear as he always did, waited for Dean to tell him everything was okay. He'd gladly accept a lie at this point. Just anything to assure him that his big brother was still - at least somewhat - with him.

Only he wasn't.

Sam felt it hit him suddenly, like a full-on body slam.

Dean was gone.

Dean was dead.

Dean would never be a part of his life again.

His older brother - his protector, his hero - was dead. And Sam was vulnerable for the first time in his life.

He didn't remember slipping down the side of the dumpster and pulling his legs to his chest. He would never recall sitting there all night, rocking back and forth, drifting off into brief bouts of fitful slumber, only to wake up minutes later mumbling Dean's name frantically.

He wouldn't remember the snow start to fall, or the way it covered his whole body like a blanket. A blanket designed specifically by some aspect of fate that hated him, that warded off the warmth and kept in that deeply cold feeling.

He wouldn't remember much of that night after Dean had disappeared again. But the doctor's will fill him in, tell him of the shock he'd gone into. The way his body could not cope after having been deprived of real nutrients for so long, only to be filled with alcohol, then left outside in the freezing cold for the better part of three hours.

The bartender will tell her version, as well. She will leave out the gruesome details - those were clearly covered by the doctors. No, she will tell Sam of the white light that was surrounding him when she found him in that back ally.

She will explain, with awe in her voice and a gleam in her eye how, while Sam was an inch from death, there was something in that light keeping him alive.

She could feel it, she swore to him. It was like hope and trust and love all rolled into one. She'd never experienced anything so magnificent in her entire life.

Had it not been for that feeling, she might have doubted what she'd seen right before she'd run inside to call an ambulance. But she'd felt what she felt in that light, and knew it to be true, so when she'd glanced away from Sam's pale and shaking form and saw the man standing above them, she didn't flinch.

She only rose to meet him and listened to his words, promising to repeat them when Sam was well enough to hear them.

She stood at his bedside now, awe still present in her tone. "He said...he said, 'See ya later, kiddo. I'll be around.' Then he smirked, most confident smirk I've ever seen," she laughed lightly, "Then he disappeared. Just, vanished."

"That was my brother," Sam said, small smile playing over his lips. "Man of few words."

TBC...


	5. In my mind’s eye

Chapter Five: In my mind's eye

Sam looked around his surroundings and frowned. Something was off.

He recalled vaguely the events of the last few days, no real clarity came with the memories, for he couldn't sort out what had actually happened and what he had dreamed – or hallucinated, as the case may be – it was all one big jumbled blob.

All he knew for sure now was that he was standing in a motel room, two identical twin beds in front of him and a small table to the left of them next to the standard motel room door.

The place held an air of familiarity, but he couldn't pinpoint where exactly he was, in which state he'd seen this room before.

He realized seconds later that it scarcely mattered.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean spoke quietly, and when Sam turned his head, the shorter man was right in front of him, where only thin air had been moments before.

"Dean…" He trailed off questioningly and before he could regain any sense of clarity, his big brother's arms were around him; a protective hug that he hadn't felt the security of since childhood.

Sam took a deep breath and relaxed against the elder man, letting his head fall against his shoulder and balling up the material of his shirt tightly in his palms, he took a few deep breaths and the world was suddenly alright again.

Dean had always had that power.

They stayed like that for much too long, much longer than they would have in the real world, anyway. They stayed like that until Sam no longer felt like the weight of the world had come up and placed itself on his shoulders, mocking all that he had lost.

The moment Sam loosened his grasp, and took a steadying breath, Dean pulled back slightly, questioningly. Only letting go entirely when the younger man nodded and lifted his head.

They sat down simultaneously then, each perching themselves on the edge of a mattress. The beds were close enough so that, when they leaned forward, their knees were only a few inches away from touching.

Sam spoke first. "So, I'm dreaming?"

Dean chuckled slightly. He still looked the same; he looked as Dean always did. Before his death, and when he was appearing to Sam. Healthy, Sam put a name to it, Dean looked healthy.

"What gave it away?" He was smirking slightly, and Sam felt in that moment that everything would be all right.

"The chick flick moment was a tip off," he announced, smiling slightly himself. "The abstract motel location and the fact that I can barely remember anything that's happened in the last few days really gave it away."

Dean's smirk changed suddenly to a frown, and Sam was a little taken aback.

"I can vouch for you on the first two," his voice was more serious, but not quite angst ridden enough to have Sam more than mildly concerned. "But the memory thing, that's kinda on you."

"Howdya figure?" Sam inquired.

"You might remember more when you wake up," Dean sighed, "But you nearly died the other night, Sammy."

Sam's gaze drifted off slightly, a glaze formed over his eyes, he looked back to Dean some undetermined amount of time later. "The cold."

"That would've beenthe snow," the elder reminded him lightly. "You sorta passed out in it."

"Yeah…" Sam remembered now, and the girl – the bartender's – words came back to him. "But you were there, you kept me safe."

Dean chuckled a dry, humorless chuckle. "I kept you alive," he edited and Sam's face screwed up slightly. "Safe…well, you haven't really been safe in a while, kiddo."

"Sure I have," Sam insisted, "I've been…I mean…its not like…"

Confused suddenly, he looked to his big brother for help, and Dean yielded without complaint. This whole situation, while Sam had realized logically that it was a dream of some sort, didn't feel like such. The dream aspect was simply floating around them pointlessly, a fact that both were happy to ignore.

Dean gladly interrupted his brother's fragmented sentences, filling them in with full thoughts.

"You can barely remember anything that's happened since," he took a breath, "Since the night I died, right?"

Sam cringed but answered without pausing, "Not right now." He admitted. "But you said it yourself, when I wake up…"

"Sammy," Dean cut off gently. "Ever since…since that night, something's been happening to you, something…not so normal."

"You're dead and I've been talking to you?" Sam guessed, because that he could remember with ease.

"Yeah," Dean sighed, "But do you know why?"

"Why?" Sam's thoughts muddled at the word. "What…what do you mean, 'Why?' Because you died and your ghost came…" Dean started shaking his head and Sam grew irritated. "What?" He insisted. "What else could have…"

"What do you remember about my funeral?" Dean questioned.

"What sorta morbid…" Sam's angry words were halted once again.

"Come on, little brother, just think about it for me. What do you remember?"

"Everything." Sam snapped then, because he wished more than anything that he didn't. "I remember everything. Why? What does any of this matter?"

"Because you've been fooling yourself, Sam." Dean told him in a steady, almost sympathetic, tone. "You don't remember."

"Stop saying that." Sam demanded. "Of course I do. It was your funeral. Of course I fucking remember."

"Sammy…"

"No," the younger man cut off this time. "I remember your coffin getting put in the goddamn _ground_, okay?" Tears clouded his words, but he couldn't stop, wouldn't believe anything else. "I remember watching it and trying so hard not to think anything, because I didn't want to start crying, because you would hate that."

Dean smiled slightly, but Sam went on, watching as the scene played out in his memory. "I remember talking to all of Dad's friends, all the people we knew when we were kids…I talked to them because dad didn't want to, and it would've been too rude to just ignore them after they flew all the way to Kansas, for…"

Sam took another deep breath, '…for your funeral' they both finished silently. "I remember Missouri being there…" he trailed off again, because he couldn't remember the specifics of that particular event.

He could tell his brother was a breath away from commenting on that so he continued quickly with, "And I remember seeing Cassie," Sam went on, ignoring the way Dean's sad eyes darted away from his at this point, he knew it was better than discussing his lost words with the psychic. "I didn't think a girl that strong could breakdown so completely, and I remember thinking, that if we had just stayedwith herafter that hunt, none of this would have happened, and you might be happy right now."

"Sam…" Dean tried then, because Sam was bordering on hysterics, but he couldn't stop. Not now.

"No," The younger man bit angrily. "I remember it all Dean. The people, the rain, Pastor Jim's eulogy. Caleb's wife couldn't stop crying, and I still don't know of she was just overly emotional or if you two have some sort of history…"

"I saved her life a few years back." Dean shrugged slightly. "Werewolf hunt gone wrong, nothing major."

Sam nodded, storing away the information before continuing. "I _remember _Dean, I remember it all."

"What happened when everyone left?" The elder man asked after a few moments of respectful silence.

"Huh?"

"After everyone left, when the funeral was over," his voice was gentle yet firm and Sam was having a hard time comprehending his words. "What happened then?"

The younger man didn't understand, and he shook his head slightly indicating such. "Nothing," he said as if it should have been obvious, his emotions were still winding down after having essentially relived his brother's entire funeral. "Me and dad stayed there for a while, then he left and…well, then you showed up."

"Sammy…" his voice was so laced with sadness; it made Sam want to cry just hearing it. "What did you and dad do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sam snapped, hands grasping his knees firmly, trying to release some of his building tension through the tightening grip.

"Yes you do," Dean instated softly, leaning slightly so that he was eye level with his younger brother. "You've just been blocking it out."

A vision of red-hot flames leapt at him then, and Sam jumped back instinctively.

"What…?" He was frightened now, and Dean was doing nothing, just staring steadily. Sam felt alone again as the heat came closer. He closed to his eyes to try and escape it, to hide from whatever was happening, and that's when he saw.

_Sam was standing next to his father. Both of the remaining Winchester men had grim looks etched onto their faces, visible only by pale moonlight streaming through the graveyard._

"_It's what your brother wanted." John spoke in a hallow tone and Sam didn't respond. He thought instead of the empty coffin they had lowered into the ground just hours ago, wishing with every thought he had that that had been the end._

_When his only remaining son refused to answer, the eldest Winchester lit the match with shaking hands._

_John had wanted to use Dean's last remaining silver Zippo lighter, thought vaguely that it would be more fitting; but Sam had already pocketed that particular item. Just as he had already fastened Dean's ever present leather chord, charm necklace around his neck, and slid the silver ring onto his own finger._

_He had his brother's leather jacket folded around his ceremonial dagger in the backseat of the Impala, and already planned to slip both under his pillow as soon as he picked a motel to stay at that night._

_Of course, sunrise would find him still at his brother's grave, but he didn't know that yet. _

_So when John Winchester lit the match, all Sam allowed himself to think was that he was glad it hadn't been the Zippo. He needed that Zippo much more than Dean's corpse did._

_The flames burned bright and big, as if angry about having to take such a man away from the world – physical or spiritual – and that Sam could understand. For once he sided with the fire. _

_Dean shouldn't be taken away. Not like this. At the hand of his father. John had assured that Dean would never return to them, an assurance he had forgotten to make with his wife, a mistake he would never make again._

"_It would hurt more to have him come back, Sammy." John spoke with a gentle tone and tears in his eyes - as if apologizing - but Sam didn't hear him. "It's better this way. It's right."_

_But Sam still blocked it out. Heard nothing but his own repeating thought. 'I want my brother back. I want my brother back.' He had wished, prayed even, for a miracle. Thought surly that he could make it happen. He had provided Dean with a miracle once before after all, what was stopping him from doing it again?_

_So what if he was standing right here, with his father, watching Dean's body burn to ash before his very eyes? What did that have to do with a miracle? Miracles overlooked this sort of thing. _

_He would get Dean back, he was sure of it. _

_And when his father finally left, after many failed attempts to get Sam to accompany him, __the youngest Winchester remained where he stood, until Dean appeared at his side._

"That's what happened that night," Dean said softly when the vision was over and Sam couldn't help but wonder if his brother has seen it too. "That's what you've been blocking out."

"How…?" God he felt lost. So lost that he thought maybe he'd rather stay in this dream world forever, rather than try to sort through anything else.

"I can't explain it very well," Dean warned, running a hand though his hair the way he always did. "It's what Missouri tried to warn you about, what you still can't remember."

"I don't…" he recalled the aging psychic's saddened face. '_A tragedy._' She had said, but that's all Sam could hear in his memories. He knew they talked for longer, discussed something important, but it was gone now.

"I know," Dean reached forward slightly and grasped Sam's knee reassuringly. The unexpectedness of the physical contact brought Sam's attention back fully to his brother. He watched Dean's eyes grow clouded as he began to explain.

"It's actually pretty ironic," he smiled a smile that held no humor. "Your psychic wonder boy thing…"

"I haven't had a vision in forever," Sam defended immediately, thinking maybe if he argued enough he could reverse the outcome of this talk.

"I know," Dean said patiently. "Because the part of your brain that give 'em to you has been preoccupied."

"What are you _talking _about?" He asked harshly.

Dean pulled back then, using both hands to rub at his face. Sam ignored the empty feeling that the loss of physical contact brought him.

"I'm talking about your…powers, I guess." He said, trying obviously to find the right words.

"I don't have _powers._" Sam scoffed. "I just…ya know, see stuff sometimes. Stuff that directly links to the demon, by the way." He added harshly. "And we know that that didn't kill you, so I don't see what they have to do with…"

"Damn it, Sammy," Dean snapped. "Will you just listen to me?"

Sam, slightly taken aback, was silent, listening instead to his brother's stressed words. "I told you I didn't understand it exactly, I only know what Missouri said."

Sam bit his lip to keep from commenting and Dean took it as a sign to continue.

"The part of your brain that lets you have those visions is a something that everyone has, but no one can use. Ya know, unless they're a freak, like you."

Sam smiled at the teasing quality if the words and was thankful to Dean for breaking the tension of the atmosphere, if only slightly.

"That's me." Sam said softly, smiling. "Freak boy."

Dean looked saddened that he had to continue. "Yeah," he sighed largely. "So basically, when I died…something happened to that part of your head. Your visions gave way for hallucinations."

"I was thinking that earlier." Sam said, half to himself, half to the dead man in front of him. "But it doesn't make sense. Not really. Hallucinations aren't…they're not like you were - are. They're fake. You're real."

Sam had just paved the path for Dean's final words of explanation, possibly subconsciously; the need to understand had always been a strong one for the youngest Winchester.

"No, Sammy." Dean sighed and Sam thought that absently he had been doing that a lot lately. "Your freaky little head made me real, brought part of my spirit back to life. But it was never really _real_, and you knew that."

"No…"

"Yes, Sammy." Dean insisted. "That's why we never really talked about my dying. Its why you never wanted to let the conversation go there."

"Dean…"

"I'm not gonna lie Sam, and I told you, its hard to get. But I have been with you. The part of me that was always with you. The part that'll never leave."

Sam didn't bother with attempted words; just shot Dean a look that demanded an explanation.

"Okay," Dean sighed, "But I'm warning you. Death can make a guy sappy."

At Sam's expectant expression, he went on. "Okay, you know how they say that when someone dies, they never really leave you, a part of them is always with you…?"

"The carp they put on Hallmark sympathy cards?" Dean's nod confirmed it and Sam went on, "What about it?"

"They're not wrong." Dean said simply.

"Come again?" Sam said steadily, eyes boring into the depths of his brother's.

"It's less of a sappy and more of a spiritual thing," Dean explained. "When you know somebody, have any connection to them at all, a part of their spirit sort of…rubs off, into you."

Sam's look was speculative and Dean kept going, speaking with a factual tone, underlined with something like hope.

"It keeps them alive to you. Makes them part of you, actually. And the stronger the connection, the more prominent that spiritual…marker, is."

"And when you died…"

"When I died, your powers – and yes, that's what they are – took that place inside you, and made it real again."

"It brought you back." Sam said, a certain sad understanding now present in his voice.

"Yup," Dean spoke softly.

Sam eyes lit up suddenly. "Then why can't it just stay that way?" He sounded excited by the prospect. "You said that part of your spirit was there anyway, in _me. _And they're _my _powers. Why can't I just keep…"

"Because it's killing you." He cut off.

Sam didn't even flinch. "Fine," he agreed. "No more drunk sessions with naps in the snow, I promise."

"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleaded. "You know it's not that easy."

"Why not?" He snapped, sounding like a petulant four-year-old.

"Because that's not what I was talking about." He said angrily. "It's everything that's been going on, the stuff you can't remember. The shit you'll _never _remember."

"Dean…" Sam tired, but was again cut off.

"Using that part of your brain like that, it's like a drug. An addictive, _deadly_ drug." He spoke with concerned anger and Sam was forced, by the intensity if it, to listen. "It blocks out other stuff. Real stuff."

"Like my visions?" Sam guessed. "Like when I have visions and can't see anything else?"

Dean nodded, looking relieved that Sam was finally getting it.

"Yeah," he said. "Every time I appear, every time you _want _me to appear even, your brain blocks something else out. That spirit in the cemetery, you don't remember how your arm got hurt, do you?"

Sam's gaze drifted, trying fruitlessly to pin together recollections that didn't involve his big brother.

"Or the poltergeist in Tennessee that nearly strangled you, or the Wendigo in Dallas or the ghost in South Dakota, or the one in Arkansas or…" He must have seen Sam's face then, because he stopped and when he spoke again his words were sad and purposeful. "You don't even remember how much time has passed, do you? Since I died."

"A few months," Sam approximated, grasping for mental images that wouldn't form.

"_Ten _months." Dean clarified.

Sam's eyes widened impossibly. "No," he objected. "It couldn't a been…"

"Almost eleven, actually." Dean took a deep breath. "You don't remember how many times you nearly died. How many people almost died in the crossfire because you weren't all there." These words were harsh and made Sam noticeably cringe. "No one died." He assured, and Sam couldn't help but feel the relief. "But there were so many close calls."

"I don't…remember…any of it…"

"I know, Sammy." Dean assured. "It's not your fault. But it's gotta end."

"I don't know…"

"Listen to me, Sam." Dean spoke firmly. "If you keep this up, you _will _die. Your brain will shut down completely. That is if you don't drive into a tree or something first, which you've already almost done a dozen times."

Sam cringed. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well," Dean half-smirked. "If you'd hurt my car, I woulda killed you myself."

"You've been helping me though, haven't you?" Sam asked, remembering the bartender's tale of the safety in the bright light. "Keeping me safe? Protecting me?"

"I've been trying," Dean admitted, "Your powers gave _me _some powers...it's all mixed up. Hard to understand, but yeah, I've been helping you out."

"Thanks." He whispered.

"You won't be thanking me pretty soon."

Sam was silent for a few impossibly long minutes, staring stubbornly at the wall on the other side of the room. If he didn't say anything, didn't look directly at his brother - although he could see him clearly in his peripheral vision - then this conversation wouldn't have to continue and they could stay together.

"Sam..."

"How are you here now?" Sam cut off, looking back at the other man. His entire being screamed of the need to stay where he was, with his brother.

Dean sighed and focused on the question - Sam was grateful. "You mean, am I..."

"Am I doing this?" Sam spoke clearly. "Like I've been doing? Or is this something...else?"

"It's something else." Dean answered honestly.

"But...if me and dad really did..." he didn't finish the thought, not willing to meet those images again.

"I don't know what this is, Sammy." Dean spoke honestly. "I don't know what caused this or how it can even be happening. All I know is that I'm here, and its as real as it can get."

And Sam knew it too. Felt it in every single part of himself - from the experienced psychic, receiver of prophetic messages, to the scared five-year-old kid who wanted nothing more than to crawl into his big brother's bed, knowing that it would chase away the demons of the night - he _knew _that this was Dean.

"But..." Sam met his brother's eyes and felt the tears begin to form. "You're dead."

Dean had tears in his eyes as well, but ignored them as Dean always did. "And when you wake up from whatever this is, that's still gonna be true."

Sam opened his mouth.

"No, you can't stay here forever." Dean answered.

Sam tried again. Sounds didn't have a chance to form.

"Because people need you. Dad. That girl from the bar."

Sam raised his eyebrows, and when Dean didn't speak immediately, he risked a word. "What does she..."

"She's gonna be part of your future." Dean cut off, smiling genuinely. "I can feel it."

"I thought..."

"You're still the psychic, don't worry." He spoke through Sam again. "But I'm dead. I can sense these things."

"Can you sense that I'd really like to..."

"Finish a sentence?" The smirked lied to none but toyed with all. "Yeah, I got that."

The two had a brief staring contest then. Serious faces dissolved into an annoyed eye roll and bright grin, respectively, after mere moments, and Sam had proved victorious. Claiming his prize, he spoke again.

"You want me to start dating?"

"Never said that." Dean held up his hands defensively.

"It was pretty clearly implied," Sam pointed out.

He shrugged, foregoing the double talk. "So what if I do?" He said. "I think it'd be a good idea."

Sam took a deep breath and gave his brother a half smile. "Maybe," he agreed, not believing it at the moment but thinking perhaps the time for such thoughts would role back around eventually. "What about hunting?"

"You're retiring." Dean informed him, and Sam couldn't help but chuckle.

"And you have a say in the matter?"

Dean's face got suddenly serious, and by default, so did Sam's. "If you keep hunting...I'm gonna keep appearing. Your brain's not gonna be able to shut that part out."

"But it'll be able to if I stop?" That seemed unlikely, illogical even.

"You'll be able to make it," he informed. "Easier, anyway. That's what Missouri said. You need to go see her when this is all over, too. There's some stuff she knows that can help you. Get this power under control."

"So you might come back?" He tried not to let his hopefulness show. "While I'm trying to get this under control?"

Shaking his head, the elder man admitted, "Maybe. But it won't be like this. It'll just be the part of me that you have anyway."

"Right." Sam snorted, fed up with the repeating mantra. "The part that's not really there. I can't talk to that part."

"I'm dead, Sammy." He spoke with an apologetic air of finality. "Talking's not really in the cards anymore."

"I hate that." He spoke evenly.

"You and me both, kiddo." A few seconds later, Dean patted his knee, speaking with an attempted lightness. He ended up sounding simply confident. "Hey, I'll always be around. You gotta know that by now. I mean, physically, not so much, but other than that..."

"Yeah," Sam smiled. "I know."

Time passed and gazes drifted. Limbo, Sam decided at some point. This was truly limbo. A place where dead and alive souls could commingle. A place that made everything alright again. Or, at least, provided the opportunity for people to make it that way themselves.

Eventually - time had no absolute meaning here - Sam felt himself drifting away. It felt something like a growing and unalterable exhaustion, slowly creeping up on him, ensuring that sleep would overtake him soon. And there was nothing he could do to fight it. A simple blink would be his downfall.

Only instead of sleep, he was succumbing to reality. A world in which Dean no longer lived and breathed. His immediate reaction was subconscious, but both brothers felt it after only moments.

"Don't fight it, Sammy." Dean soothed gently. "You gotta go back."

Sam looked at his brother, wanting to protest but knowing he couldn't. He spoke weary words, feeling the tug of the inevitable. "No goodbyes..." he swayed slightly.

Dean looked on, with reassurance written on his face and confidence present in his eyes. "Never." He swore. "I'll never say goodbye, Sammy."

TBC...


	6. Funny how Time Flies

Epilogue: Funny how time flies

Sam was struck sometimes - at random moments that tended not to coincide with one another - with the absolute and unwavering knowledge that nothing would ever be okay ever again.

His big brother was dead, his father was once again missing in action, and Sam was unable to do the one thing that had always given his life a sense of meaning. His big brother was dead. Dean was dead and gone forever. Nothing cut him deeper than that.

He sat - in his rented out, one room apartment located just outside of Syracuse, New York - and let grief overtake him. He didn't fight it - not in these moments.

These were the moments when he looked back on the last six months of his life and wanted to laugh at himself. Beat himself up actually, over wasted time and other things long since forgotten.

For six months, he'd been working with Missouri. The older psychic had rented out an apartment herself in upstate New York, foregoing employment, comfortable living conditions and the structure of her life in Kansas entirely, all so she could work with Sam.

Train the part of his brain that called upon Dean's spirit. She taught him, much as a mother might teach her child, how to let go. How to reel in that part of his mind, focus his power and stop materializing his brother.

And it was working, doubt was absent on that front. Sam had complete control over what he did with his head now. He could call on Dean to appear, but had done so only once since their sessions had begun, and even then only safely with Missouri in the room with him.

He couldn't risk staying addicted.

He could make things move now too. He had regained total control over his telekinetic abilities - of course, only when it was too late to actually help him do his job. Hunting. A job he no longer had.

He sat, trapped in this moment, and could think only one thing.

"Hey now," Dean's voice sounded from the previously empty space on the couch next to him. "I thought you were getting better."

Sam couldn't pull his eyes away from the other side of the room, the window he was staring at steadfastly. Rain was falling in steady sheets, lightening lit the sky and thunder shook the earth. "I...I was. I am." He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, sounded more confident. "I am."

"Okay," Dean agreed easily, before countering, "Then why am I here?"

"I'm not sure." Sam answered honestly.

"You know this is dangerous." He kept going in a factual tone; Sam could feel his eyes on him, studying his reactions.

He defended at least that much, "I'm in a safe location. No one's gonna get hurt while I'm zoning out, and...and I'll make sure it doesn't last too long."

"So...Missouri just left, huh?" Dean concluded after listening to his brother's defenses.

"Get right to the point then, why don't ya," Sam commented dryly, gaze still not shifting.

"And Julie's gonna be in class, taking finals for the next few days, right?" Dean referred to the bartender that had saved the youngest Winchester's life almost half a year previous. Sam's not-girlfriend, as he phrased it.

The taller man crossed his arms over his chest, and huffed slightly. Dean chuckled, amused at the display. "It's alright to miss her," he informed lightly. "Healthy even. Spiritual rebirth, emotional openness...all that crap Missouri's been yappin' about."

Sam clenched his teeth. "It's not her I miss." He told him, barely opening his mouth to do so.

Dean's expression remained calm, steady in his knowledge. "Yeah Sammy, it is."

"Dean..."

"No, hear me out." The elder man pulled himself up, so he was now sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing Sam, and the younger man - driven simply by feelings of awkwardness - turned finally and met his gaze.

"Fine," Sam sighed.

"You miss me. I get that, hell, I _feel _that." Dean started.

"This is gonna be sappy, isn't it?" Sam smirked slightly.

"Shut up, sissy boy," Dean smirked. "You're the one who wanted this."

"Point taken."

"But you can't let that stop you from caring about other people."

"I thought you told me to find a shrink that was _alive _next time I dived into a therapy session." Sam recalled words spoken long ago by the exact same entity that was in front of him now.

Dean didn't even pause to give him an annoyed look. "At least we know if you shoot me this time, nothin'll happen."

"Great," Sam snorted, "Bring that up."

"I'm not," Dean assured quickly. "Besides, I'm not acting like your shrink."

"No," Sam said sarcastically. "If this was a therapy session, I'd be lying on a couch and you'd be asking, 'And how does that make you _feel?_'"

Dean didn't hide the smile and Sam thought absently that, since Dean's death, he had developed many of his brother's natural defenses - his distaste of seriousness in anything at all. The shift went both ways, and Dean plowed through the sarcasm with ease - he had developed it, after all, perfected and taught it. Sam was simply following in the clearly laid footsteps.

"I'm acting like you _brother_," Dean continued as if there'd been no interruption. "And if that means the re-birth of chick flick moments...then so be it."

"Fine," Sam agreed with ease, he didn't, he reminded himself sadly, have much time. "Then why are you here?"

"Julie asked you to move in with her this summer," Dean commented, treading suddenly lightly. "Find an apartment together. Near her college, so maybe, if you wanted to go..."

"You know," Sam remembered after a moment of silence. "I don't know if I could go to college with her. I mean, I've missed a lot. And her school...it's this fancy Liberal Arts place...I couldn't dive back into the whole lawyer thing."

If Dean were being logical, he might point out that they - Sam - was in New York, and if ever you wanted a variety of different schools within close range of one another, you were in the right state. But Dean knew logic wasn't what was driving his brother's contemplative words.

So he said instead, "What's Julie studying?"

"Social work." Sam answered immediately. "Her undergrad is psychology."

"Well..." Dean couldn't hide the growing smile. "That's ironic."

Sam made a face that shouted clearly, utter and complete concurrence. "She's cool about it, though." He shrugged slightly. "She doesn't try to psychoanalyze me or anything, and if she does she does it so subtly I don't notice."

"That'd be a sign that's she's good at it," Dean threw in. He had already decided long ago that this girl would set his brother free.

"Mostly she just listens." Sam said softly. "And she doesn't judge me, either. Thanks, by the way," he threw in after a moment.

"For..."

"That night at the bar, the snow." Sam clarified. "If it hadn't been for your protective bubble of light thing, she'd be checking me into the crazy ward by now."

"You've been telling her about hunting." Dean deduced.

"I told her that night." Sam said. "Everything." He chuckled, "Scared the crap outta her."

"Not shocking," Dean said mildly. "Cassie reacted the same way."

The taller man nodded, "Julie's more accepting, though."

"Lucky you," And there was only the barest trace of bitterness.

Sam half-smiled and made it sympathetic. "Yeah," he agreed. "I know."

"So does that mean you _are _gonna move in with her?" Dean circled the conversation back around and both brothers felt it - their time was dwindling.

"I think so," he still looked, however, as if he were pondering it. "You think I should?"

"I don't think you should stay alone," came the honest answer. "It's not safe."

"I know." Sam didn't think to argue, both knew that the statement had levels that neither wanted to touch. So they left it sitting there, a festering, untreatable wound. Because, contrary to popular belief, not all issues had solutions, and sometimes, time simply ran out.

"So...I'll move in with her." And just like that, the decision he'd been struggling with for three weeks, was made. Sam shook his head, his face displaying emotions somewhere between amusement and amazement. "How the hell do you do that?"

"I'm your big brother," he answered easily, "I know you. I know what you want."

"Helps that you live inside my head, doesn't it?"

Dean grinned. "Doesn't hurt."

Silence was a luxury when he was with his brother now. A dangerous luxury that Sam wouldn't allow himself for more than seconds at a time. "I do miss her," he admitted, driven by the fear that if he didn't get it out now, he never would. "I mean. It's only been a few days since I've seen her, I even talked to her this morning...but I miss her."

"And that scares you," Dean filled in the unspoken words.

Sam sighed. "Of course it does." He said quietly. Then, quieter still, "Everyone always leaves."

Dean's heart broke a little then. Because as much as he'd like to, there was no way to dispute that. It was life - the harsh aspect of life that his little brother had seen far too much of - people did leave. People died.

And if you were incapable of letting go, or if you had no one there to help - make you, even - deal with your feelings on the matter, it would haunt you for the rest of time. And if you were a Winchester, that haunting would become literal and would, therefore, create a whole nether wealth of conflicts.

"She might not." Because for some reason, with death came hope.

"Maybe," Sam agreed, only because he couldn't let himself feel that cynical. That hopeless. "Still scary."

"I know, little brother. I know." Dean soothed and Sam felt the tug in his stomach.

"You're leaving." It wasn't a question, wasn't a plea. He was just stating a fact. An easily accessible, well-known fact.

"You don't need me," the pride was there. Sam heard it and felt lighter - if only marginally. "Not anymore."

"So...I'll see ya?" Sam sounded hopeful and Dean shot a small, half-smile, half-smirk in his direction.

"Yeah," Dean concluded, forever wanting to have the last word. "I'll see you, Sammy."

The youngest Winchester closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and - when he felt he could deal with the feelings of loss - cracked his eyelids.

He stared not at the empty space where Dean had just been, but at the large window across the room. He felt no depression at seeing the still present downpour of rain, his thoughts, for once, did not match the physical features of the murky sky, and when lightening struck; he felt only a vague sense of understanding.

The rain fell and Sam felt comforted. He knew, somehow, that Dean was conducting this storm just for him.

* * *

Sam was struck sometimes - at random moments that tended not to coincide with one another - with the absolute and unwavering knowledge that nothing would ever be okay ever again.

Dean was dead, as Sam would never fully recover from that. In the fifty-year gap between the time that his big brother was killed and the time that Sam succumbed himself to old age and ill health - he would never fully recover.

He would have his good periods - the time when everything was almost okay. When he married Julie, bought a house with her in upstate New York. The suburbs, just like Sam had always dreamed of. When he graduated from college, and master's degree in social work and psychology in one hand, an offer for him and Julie to join a prominent organization in the other.

After Julie gave birth to their only child - a fair-haired boy they'd named, expectedly, Dean - was the highest point in his post-hunting life. When he'd loved the child instantly, found he had bonds with young Dean stronger than even Julie did, he knew then that he might be okay after all.

Then came the low periods.

When Missouri had called to inform him - only two weeks after his college graduation - that his father had been killed. Died taking out the same thing that had killed his brother. Never had Sam bothered with the specifics of the monster, he had given up that fight long, long ago. He knew only that it had taken his only remaining family, and was now dead.

He needed no knowledge beyond that. It was over.

His father had no funereal, and was buried next to his wife and eldest son.

Then came the day, when little Dean was a mere seven-years-old, a monster found its way into his closet, and Sam was forced to shoot the sucker with nine rounds of tightly packed rock salt - found in a rifle that was forever hiding under his bed, _just in case _- before it diminished. A lower level thing. More of a parasite than a monster - it fed on the innocence of children's dreams. And it was Sam's first kill in over a decade.

They sat down; Julie, Sam and little Dean, and explained to their son that monsters were real, things really did go bump in the night, and he - because he was a Winchester - had the option of following a path clearly laid out by destiny. One that would allow him to become a hunter. Force him to know tragedy up close, yet experience that unparalleled feeling of saving people's lives daily.

Little Dean didn't choose his destiny that night, and Sam was glad. He needed the subsequent four months that followed that incident to let Julie talk him into believing he really was a good parent. That he wasn't repeating his father's mistakes.

He talked to his brother that night too.

Four months later, he started training his son - with a gentle hand - in the fine art of monster killing. Also beginning on that day, were the stories of Dean. The elder Dean.

Sam's son learned the source of his namesake and for the rest of eternity would feel the need to make three members of his family proud. His u\Uncle Dean more than his mom or dad even, because his Uncle Dean, as his dad told it, was as close to perfection as a human could get. And he was a kick ass hunter to boot.

Little Dean drives his Uncle's Impala now. And none of them would have it any other way.

Those moments would strike Sam until the day he died - he outlived neither his wife nor his son, and for that, all were grateful - the feeling of loss that accompanied the death of a sibling would be forever prominent within him.

He'd feel it with every breath he took, he'd be struck down by it and it would level him, each time a moment like that hit, each time he was reminded. Dean was dead. He would be forced to feel. His big brother was dead.

But Sam was alive.

Sometimes, that was all he had.

End


End file.
